(and Why It Feels Harder Now)

Hello my loves,

Buckle up—this morning’s musings are a little heavier. Come sit with me by the water for a minute.

I’ve had the dreaded “C” on my mind lately. No surprise there—I’m part of a few cancer communities, even some specifically for childhood survivors. And as we near September, which is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month, the chatter gets louder. My trauma center ripples just below the surface.

Here’s what I want to say: your trauma, no matter what it is, has no expiration date.

I’m 42 now. I was diagnosed when I was 8. Thirty-three years is a long time to carry something, and yet—it’s okay. Truly. You won’t hear any judgment from me.

My PTSD started with illness. It was later compounded by other hard things, but its roots are in that childhood diagnosis. Naturally, any time I get sick—or one of my kids does—it can send me into a tricky mental loop. Especially near anniversaries or when the conversation around cancer is everywhere.

And lately? The past few rounds of illness have been hitting me harder—not just mentally, but physically too. Being 42 is not the same as being 30. The difference in how my body feels on a regular day is astounding. Add in a virus or whatever bug is making the rounds, and I’m done.

On top of that, I have about four autoimmune issues. So when sickness comes, it’s not just a bad week; it can feel like my whole body waves a white flag. I feel weak. Defeated. And yes, sometimes just plain pissed off.

Now, I know no one likes getting sick. It’s unpleasant for everyone. But when you add a sprinkle of PTSD? Oh, what a ride.

The good news is: over the years, I’ve learned how to wind myself out of the mental spiral more quickly—or at least mask it well enough to get done what needs to get done. Still, if I’m being honest? I feel the most vulnerable when I’m sick.

For someone who’s been on the brink of death—and in plenty of other compromising situations—this makes sense. Sickness feels like losing control. I hate being unable to manage my own body, my house, my people. I also hate feeling needy, dependent, or whatever other label you want to slap on it.

But here’s the truth: when I’m sick, I need a lot of comfort.
Comfort and affection are love languages for me. I’m not talking about being waited on hand and foot. I mean touch. Cuddles. Head rubs. An exorbitant amount of patience, because, let’s be real—I get irritable when I’m sick. It’s not just the fever talking; it’s the storm of old thoughts and emotions that flare up inside me.

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not alone. Whether your trauma comes from illness or something entirely different, you might have your own tender spots that ache when life presses on them. There’s no shame in that. There’s no timeline for healing.

If anything, may this be a gentle permission slip: to ask for the comfort you need, to give yourself grace when the old wounds throb, and to know you’re not broken—you’re human.

Thanks for sitting by the water with me today.

With love,
-J

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Steele Waters

May the years that soften your body not harden your heart.
May the waves of old pain teach you the tides of grace.
And when you feel weakest,
may you remember—
even the smallest branch can still float on Steele Waters.